


Dye the City Black (and Blot Out the Red)

by APenguinAteMySmarthphone



Series: Red and Black [2]
Category: Ballistik Boyz from Exile Tribe (Band), Battle of Tokyo (LDH), Generations from Exile Tribe (Band), The Rampage from Exile Tribe (Band)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Injury, I'm awful to Lucas in this I'm so sorry, I'm just awful to everyone, I'msosorry, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Look at me trying to be poetic and failing miserably, No resolution this begins and ends in the same tone, Not Beta Read, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Threats of Violence, Very VERY loosely implied sexual content, Violence, Yeah it gets WAY worse in this, please read the notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:40:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29686188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APenguinAteMySmarthphone/pseuds/APenguinAteMySmarthphone
Summary: Lupus looks at him and declares him perfection. Lucas looks at himself and sees a broken mirror.Somewhere, the sound of glass cracking echoes.(Lucas doesn't really like the color red all that much, but it certainly seems to make Lupus happy. Or as 'happy' as his broody and silent partner can get.)Another side/part to 'Paint the Town Red'.
Relationships: Lupus/Lucas
Series: Red and Black [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2181525
Kudos: 8





	Dye the City Black (and Blot Out the Red)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back at it again. I swear my brain is not as rotten as these things suggest. But if you liked the first one then that makes me happy, and if you like this one that'll make me even happier. As per my usual protocol, I will now provide you with the...
> 
> MAJOR WARNINGS!: Obsessive/possessive! Lupus (if he is your fav and you can't stand that shit then...well, don't read this) and Assassin! Lucas. There are deaths and mentions of violence. Lucas mentally suffers throughout the majority of this.  
> So, y'know, I wouldn't continue if you're not a huge fan of... THIS particularly type of genre.

Lucas doesn’t hate the color red, but he can’t say he particularly loves it either.

Ironic, he knows, but perhaps there is some credence in the words, ‘you can only have so much’. You can only tolerate so much of the same two monochromatic shades in your life if you spend every second of it turning around, only to face the same color.

In himself, he sees red. In Lupus, more black. Bailey leans more towards the latter end of the spectrum as well. Others, such as Travis, levitate between, more leaning towards red but not to an excessive point. 

Black hides secrets best. Red accentuates them far too much.

Sometimes Lucas is struck by an urge to bleach his hair, all of it, to wring out the reds. No one else is brought into confidence about this urgeーhe doesn’t think any of them would understand it. It is also, he knows, an incredible waste of efficiency. Blonde or white, or even light brown, sticks out more in the shadows then red. And he does quite his share of creeping under the covers of shade, avoiding the city lights, so he supposes that, logically, his urge makes little sense.

_ I like the color red,  _ is Lupus’ comment when he notices Lucas fiddling with the ends of his hair, an absentminded distraction for his hands, which itch for action when his mind doesn’t wish to crave it.  _ It suits you best.  _ A rare compliment, uttered in his usual tones of quiet calm. There is no particular intent behind itーthat is, if one only read the tone.

_ Thanks,  _ is all Lucas has to offer, descending into silence. He doesn’t question why Lupus had chosen  _ that  _ particular brand of commentーor compliment, what have youーwhen he had merely been fiddling with his hair, something anyone and everyone could do, for no specific reason. And yet, as if he could peer into Lucas’ mind, his soul, Lupus seemed to have deduced what had been sitting in the far reaches of his thoughts, his subconscious desire to change the color of his hair, even for a while. 

_ I don’t like the color red all that much,  _ he yearns to admit.  _ But it goes very well with black.  _

It’s the closest to a confession he can get, and even then he is too cowardly to admit to it out loud. He suspects Lupus is aware of this cowardice, and perhaps it is precisely so that he reads between every line Lucas doesn’t utter, every admittance he doesn’t make. In a kinder world, it is a show of deep friendship, of bonds of unwavering trust. In a crueler world, it is a signal of something a little more twisted, a little more dark. 

Lucas has never quite figured out whether the world his friend’s mind occupies hinges on the lighter or darker side of the spectrum. It reminds him of the color red, searing and bright, and this discomforts him. 

Another reason, he supposes, that leaves him unable to fully appreciate the color’s worth.

* * *

_ Lupus stares up at him as he steps out of the backroom, the scent of blood permeating the air, past the limp and pathetic body of tonight’s prize rat, empty eyes facing the ceiling. In stark contrast, the wolf’s eyes gleam, and Lucas feels he is descending the steps of a stage. _

* * *

Lupus thinks he does a good job of hiding, but Lucas knows a good deal about the otherーwhether the man in question knows this or not. 

And yet, paradoxically, he knows very little about his normally quiet and calm partner. His mind leaves Lucas in a labyrinth of mirrors, a looming shadow of a god watching an insignificant mouse scurry through its corridors, reveling in its confusion.

Lupus is a confusing algorithm of base desire and skilled cunning, infinite layers of intrigue wrapped under a brooding gaze and a set line of a mouth. He instills fear and awe with the skills he displays in combat, and he can intimidate almost any small-time crook, gang member, or even mafioso with his aura. A paragon of excellence within the group, the polar opposite of Lucas’ playful and enigmatic childishness. The phrase ‘a man of few words’ is almost coined just for him.

Lucas’ first impression of the man was that he needed to smile more. Quite frankly, he had been rather terrifyingーa savage wolf that had been adopted under the guise of a tame hound. Bailey, only a few years their elder, often touted them around town, presumably to increase the number of times they came in contact with one another. It worked, in a sense, because Lupus had begun trailing behind Lucas sullenly without Bailey’s prodding soon enough, although his attitude didn’t exactly soften. No snarling, but still a prickly aura of defensiveness. Lucas hadn’t been able to make heads or tails of him.

_ Where did you come from?  _ Is not something he asks. He wouldn’t want to be asked either. Instead, he asks the other how old he is; he asks what kind of food he likes best since coming here; whether he wants to learn any new games, play with the other kids. He tentatively asks, then boldly questions, and then soon they have escalated to a point where arguments are possible. Progress, as Bailey calls it. It had been a strenuous effort. 

Lupus, he learned then, had his own brand of getting people to accept him, to welcome him as family. To receive love without return of anything but the same, though his brand of loving was just as silent as the rest of him. Lupus wasn’t a jerk, was the conclusion a childish Lucasーa true child thenーhad come to; he merely found his own method of imposing his existence onto others, by silently being there, hoping to become accepted. A strange method, he supposed, but one that he didn’t mind all that muchーit was better he had made an effort to answer Lucas or hang around him, rather than coldly push everyone away.

They’re older now, and their skills of observation are heightened, years of working in the same field together honing their abilities. Teamwork and combat, skills necessary to survive. All of it broadens their perspectives, introduces them to new sides of one another they hadn’t yet perceived as children. Lupus works best in close combat, with a blade at his hip. Lucas likes to snipe down enemies from afar, yet a dagger in his hands brings out from within him an innate speed and ability he hadn’t noticed prior. Day in and out, his hands itch for the comforting metallic grip of his weapons, a yearning that sends his mind into disarray. He doesn’t even  _ like  _ fighting. Not as much as some of the others do. He doesn’t even think he is particularly strong, not with his gentle physique, no matter how much muscle he puts on. Marine could throw him with ease across the training mats; Kisaragi has his neck in a chokehold if he lets his guard down even slightly. Lupus has a blade at his throat and a knee on his chest, and Bailey has to intervene because the two of them remain completely silent, breathing heavily and looking at each other with what could be murderーor something else, who knowsーin their eyes.

Over the years, he’s seen Lupus take in young children under Rowdy Shogun’s care just as Bailey did for them, just as Hades and Goemon do for everyone. He’s seen him shy away from Kisaragi’s cat, worrying over how to properly treat such a delicate looking animal, only to be petting its fur, mesmerized over the softness, merely an hour later. He’s seen him banter with Sarutobi and Q-B; he’s seen him occasionally tease Joe; he’s seen him listen with rapt attention to Marduk’s stories. They’ve all seen springs and summers and falls and wintersーcherry blossoms blooming, the sting of heat on city asphalt, the chill of wind and the crackle of dry leaves, and the fall of pure white snow on shining neon lights. Lupus has smiled, gotten angry, rolled his eyes, laughed, sighed, and even mourned. Passings and comings, gains and losses, stacked over years of living as the shields of their town. In each memory, Lucas learns something new about the others every day, and Lupus is no exception.

Yet there are some things Lucas still does not understand about the other, some inexplicable feeling of  _ wrongness.  _ Not because he doesn’t understand everythingーthat is to be expected of different people, after allーbut because the ‘ _ what’  _ he doesn’t understand always feels off. It makes him wary. Unease and a prickling sense of fear, even, sting the back of his neck, for the slightest of moments. A whim carried on the wind, then whisked away just as fast, because he has nothing to fear from Lupus.

Maybe it’s in the way he stares at Sherrock with murder in his eyes… 

Maybe it’s the distress in Aria’s gaze from afar, coupled with his partner’s apathy… 

Maybe it’s in the cold of his hands and his eyes on the night of an excursion… 

Or maybe it’s all just his imagination.

* * *

_ Lupus tugs at his harness, and Lucas lets him. Lucas winces in pain, and against his mouth he feels Lupus smile. _

_ The moon watches them silently, and declares them both a sin. _

* * *

_ You’re abnormal.  _ Masato’s face twists slightly, mocking.  _ You both _ ー _ no, you  _ **_all_ ** _ are.  _ It pains Lucas, stings him, because he knows who the other is referring to specifically, even if they aren’t both in this room. Travis bristles next to him, taking the jab for mere insult, while Miya casually lays a hand on his weapon, shifting mere centimeters in front of the only entrance in the room, a subtle reminder of who is on whose territory at this moment. The Mad Jesters may be notorious for thievery, but even borders and territorial claims have some sway in their conduct. 

_ You have no room to talk,  _ Lucas retorts, but he doesn’t deny the statement. He can’t; there is no proof disputing it. They  _ are  _ abnormal. Or are they? Are their actions morally wrong, strange and incomprehensible? Or are they acting in accordance with the underground world they occupy? 

_ That wasn’t an insult.  _ Masato throws his hands in the air casually.  _ Just stating a fact. _

He knows, Lucas realizes with a trickle of dread. Cold sweat breaks out under his shirt. Somehow, this man knows that his hands have a part in this deception. And that Lupus’ do too.

_ Masato,  _ Parte’s voice is stern, yet resigned to his partner’s insolence, his throwaway attitude and commentary. Lucas would feel more sorry for him if they weren’t on opposing sides.  _ Play nice. We’re not here for a fight.  _

_ Yet.  _ Masato sneers. Sherrock rolls his eyes. Parte closes his own. Lucas can imagine him counting to ten. Or hundred. Even a thousand, with how irritating the shortest of the group appears to be set on acting. 

_ We aren’t here for anything.  _ Zero sounds vaguely peeved, although not at his teammate.  _ Our target is no more. We have no business here.  _ Lucas keeps his expression neutral. Blank. He’s become an expert at thatーLupus has taught him well. On the inside, he curses himself for not gathering enough intel. A one-day stakeout wouldn’t have yielded the revelation that one of those smugglers had backstabbed the Mad Jesters; he would’ve needed at least a week's worth of observation to have reached that conclusion. 

_ Then leave.  _ Travis’ voice is threatening, low. He inclines his head towards the door.  _ We aren’t stopping you today.  _ Zero raises his eyebrow at the younger’s toneーthe Rowdy Shogun members are outnumbered four to three, and the three of them are more equipped for reconnaissance than combat. They hadn’t even been on patrol when they had run intoーby pure coincidence and sheer bad luckーthe Mad Jesters members, had seen them through tinted windows, between a gap in the curtains. The eccentric clothing and the demeanor with which they carried themselves was always a dead giveaway. Also the fancy cars parked on the street. Lucas hated the fancy cars. They reminded him of times he’d rather forget. 

_ Today, he says.  _ Masato yawns, but all intent on initiating a fight, had there ever been any from the start, are gone, all pretenses and appearances discarded. Already he is bored, and Lucas can only imagine what role he inhabits for the phantom thieves. It is not dissimilar to himself, he thinks for an instance, and then dismisses the thought entirely. It’s ludicrous to assume they are anything similar, when they are everything but.

Sherrock’s eyes are fixed on Lucas in an uncomfortable stare, piercing and scrutinizingーclear eyes that seem to look right through to a person’s soul. Befitting of a thief, he thinks to himself bitterly, stealing one’s luxury of privacy and comfort from the depths of their subconscious. 

_ We’ll be taking our leave, then.  _ Zero’s tone is polite, his mouth set in a smile, but there is no humorous light in his eyes. He suspects something, Lucas thinks, but with no evidence to back it up, what can he do? Territorially, this area is Rowdy Shogun’s, so the Mad Jesters have very little claim to a kill here. It wouldn’t have started a fight, but they can do little to complain if their quarry had been stolen from them in a rival’s turf. 

Travis fixes them all with a glowering stare, while Miya surveys them all cooly with feigned disinterest tinged with scorn. Masato returns the gaze in force, while Parte merely drags him along. Zero takes the head of the group, stopping to skim his gaze over the three, frowning in slight consternation as if befuddled by something he cannot quite explain. Lucas suspects he is hoping to catch a glint of recognition amidst them, but of the three only one is aware of the true nature of the deedーand Lucas has honed his ability to feign total blankness. 

As Sherrock, bringing up the rear of the group, passes, he pauses right next to Lucas. In a voice barely above a whisper, so soft it does not reach the ears of neither his allies and Lucas’, he intones,  _ Masato is right, you know. But not in the way he thinks, or the way you think he means. You should take a better look at the company you choose to keep, and who you keep in your confidence, ladybug. _

_ I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t need your advice,  _ Lucas snaps back, his own voice a barely audible hiss.  _ And quit calling me those stupid nicknames.  _

Sherrock’s only response is a wry smile, with some mirth behind it. He tips his head in a mockery of a bow towards the three before departing with the rest of his group, all four of them leaving in a flourish of dust, kicked up obnoxiously by their fancy cars. 

_ God, I hate those cars,  _ Travis mutters, coughing. 

Lucas is fully inclined to agree.

* * *

_ Lucas slips into his room when everyone has gone out, nausea swirling in the pit of his stomach like a whirlpool. Gunshots still ring in his ears, faint echoes of flashing light and holes made in the walls. Twist an arm to steal one for his own, then fire a clean shot between the eyes. Empty expression, blank _ ー _ dark and fading eyes, disbelieving, stare into his own. He throws up, for the third time that day, and no one comes. No one is home. No one disturbs him. _

* * *

Lucas doesn’t enjoy recalling his very first kill, but he supposes no oneーlest they be a complete psychopathーparticularly enjoys it either. 

It had been a total coincidence. An accident. A cruel job played by fate because fate seemed to know that Lucas had a tendency to hang out in the corners or backs of shops even as closing times drew closer with every small move of a clock’s hands. And, as such, he found himself listening in on a conversationーa deal brokered between the shop owner, who had been relying on Rowdy Shogun for protection, and a large gang, well-known for their smuggling of both illicit goods and humans. People. A blatant insult on their name, a stain made then and there against the group’s principles. Principles that had saved  _ him,  _ because he had nowhere else to go.

Fate was really starting to be a bitch.

Lucas rarely gets upset. Not like Lupus, with his silent fury, or Sarutobi, with his bursts of passion. He’s insolent; he’s childish; he whines and pouts and he  _ knows.  _ He does it all on purpose. Of course he would know.

This was one of those rare moments where real fire, angry and hot, seared through his veins, painful and very,  _ very  _ real. 

He continues to listen, the shadows of the shop concealing him, conveniently using the store’s layout to avoid the blinking security cameras’ prying eyes. A spy cannot be spied on, and he has perfected the art of honing his ears in the directions of private conversation, of underhanded and shady talk, the language of the underground. His hood over his head, to the unsuspecting bystander he is a loitering young man, a teenager, even, brooding over the selection of  _ bento  _ boxes on display, even as closing times draw nearer. An indecisive youth, in no way posing a threat. 

Lucas watches the shop, even after he leaves. The shop owner, as arranged, pulls down his shutters and gets into a small car, ancient and sputtering. He is not heading home, Lucas knows. The location specified in his head, he traverses alleys and cuts through passages, finding the shortest route to the rats’ meeting hole, the layout of the city known to him like the back of his hand. He gets there before the owner, and observes the smugglers. No goods are being passed that nightーin other words, no people to be found. He’ll have to report this to Hades; perhaps they can save any prior victims, if they are still within the confines of Rowdy Shogun territory. 

The owner arrives and the little meeting starts. Shady business talk, pretentious attitudes: so typical of thugs who underestimate Rowdy Shogun. They think they know of the 16 protectors of the city, think they have what it takes to beat them. Because of what? Lucas feels a sneer growing on his lips. Because they have money? Connections? Fancy suits and fancy cigars, with the false so-called ‘bravery’ to commit atrocious deeds that Rowdy Shogun shuns?

They’re all idiots, Lucas decides. Idiots and cowards. 

And they need to be taught a lesson.

Lucas prowls closer, sticking to the shadows like a spider to its web. Closer and closer to the prey does the predator draw, with the prey drunk on their sure victory. The owner smiles a placating smile, face round and red from the excitement he too revels in at the prospect of wealth and power. A fool in a council of fools, a group of degenerating brain cells beyond salvation. 

Lucas hadn’t meant to act then and there. He hadn’t meant to slip out of the shadows just yet. He wanted information. Maybe to give them a scare, if he found the opportunity. He still needed them alive after all.

_ Rowdy Shogun is weak,  _ the owner says, guffawing. Hideous. Disgusting. Open mouth spewing unforgivable words.  _ They can’t protect anything. They’re a nesting ground of orphans and bastard children, unwanted rats the city doesn’t want. The ‘great protectors’? More like the ‘great pests’!  _ The men around him break out into uproarious, vile laughter. How funny that must’ve sounded to them, drunk on glory. Rotten insects. Vermin. 

_ Weak. Unwanted. Orphan. Bastard child. Pest.  _

Unforgivable. Unforgivable. Unforgivable. Unforgivable unforgivable unforgivable unforgivable unforgivable _unforgivable_ _unforgivable_ _unforgivable_ ** _unforgivable_** ー

The walls are painted brilliant red. There’s puddles of scarlet on the ground, red rain dripping from carcasses of flesh and bone. Hideous and twisted faces, forever marred in a visage of sheer terror as they clutch their throats, eyes wide with shock and horror. A plea for forgiveness hanging on the owner’s lips, silenced by the guillotine blade cutting through his neck. 

So much red. Hues of dark scarlet, of glittering garnets. Even ugly beings bleed roses. It makes him sick to his stomach.

Lucas discards the shirt from that night. He buys a new one the next day.

The bodies he leaves in the gang’s truck, embedding a simple dagger, taken from one of the men, into their leader’s throat, leaving the man’s greasy fingerprints all over it. A simple story of infighting, of a civilian murder, and then of taking one’s own life to avoid the authorities and the shame. So simple. But everyone would accept it, once evidence of their deeds got out. 

He doesn’t really care if they don’t. Yet he’ll make sure they do. He doesn’t want to implicate his family in his crimes.

_ An accident.  _ A stab of self-loathing cuts into his heart, and imaginary blood gushes from the wound.  _ Pathetic.  _ More blood.  _ Stupid.  _ Another cut. _ You let yourself get the slightest bit upset and look at what you did.  _ He leaves the meeting place. It is midnight, he keeps to the shadows, and his attire is midnight black. No one stops him, and no one sees. 

He reports to Hades, who is coming down from a patrol around the base’s perimeter. Tells him of the human trafficking, of the betrayal and the blatant disrespect to their name. Hades listens calmly, nodding at every detail.  _ I’ll send out alerts to our most trusted informants and see how many of these people we can rescue. Hopefully we can get all of them, but if they encroached onto other territories, we might have to broker a few deals.  _ Hades is kind and efficient. Lucas knows all the people will be rescued.  _ I’ll have Q-B on the case first thing tomorrow, and I’ll get Judy or A-Not to aid him as well. Patrols will be split between looking for the missing people and our regular duties until everyone is recovered.  _ See? Everyone.

_ Thank you.  _ Lucas is exhausted. He wants to sleep for maybe a thousand years, or at least for the next 20 hours. His legs ache from traversing the distances he did in the span of a single night, and his arms tire from a day’s worth of work.

But most importantly, he wants to get changed out of this shirt as soon as possible. His jacket is closed at the front, and his attire is too dark to reveal any stains, but the smell is there and he fears that Hades smells it too, though he gives no comment throughout Lucas’ report. He excuses himself for the night, desperate to be by himself.

_ Wait, Lucas.  _ Hades gives him a stern look as he tries to leave, but hesitates with his words. So rare for their fearless leader.  _ I appreciate the information, but what about the smugglers? And the owner? Where are they? _

Lucas tries to smile, but his mouth can only manage a twitch. He must look insane. 

_ Don’t worry, Hades. I took care of it. _

* * *

That night, Lucas couldn’t sleep. That night, Lupus walked into his room and didn’t say anything. Only stared at his face, watched in silence. Uncomfortable silence, broken by a bitter laugh and a throwaway joke.  _ I don’t have the energy tonight.  _ A crude one. He knows that’s not what Lupus wants, but he doesn’t care. The cloying smell of blood clogs his nose and tightens his chest, and Lupus only places a hand on his hair and strokes his head, not saying a single word. Lucas feels equal parts grateful and guilty.

Back then, he hadn’t realized anything. If he had given it more thought, he would have wondered what Lupus was doing up so late, when it wasn’t his night for a patrol. All he had seen was comfort, and all he had done was accept it.

Back then, he’d thought he would have to hide what he had done from everyone, Lupus included. Back then, he had prayed this would be a one-time thing.

* * *

_ Lupus looks at him and declares him perfection. Lucas looks at himself and sees a broken mirror. _

_ Somewhere, the sound of glass cracking echoes.  _

* * *

It is only under coincidence and circumstance, another play of fate, that he gets an unforeseen glimpse into his normally cool and unbothered partner’s facade. An unwanted reality thrust upon him that he has no recollection of pursuing.

Fate continues to screw him over. It’s beginning to get a little personal. 

He doesn’t know how or when he had gotten there, but one time he awakens to a pair of faces he wouldn’t normally see, under almost every circumstance imaginable. This group is well-known for secrecy, an enigma whose existence presents a rather interesting paradox. 

Claude and Libra, he believes their names are, both exchange glances. Understandable, he supposes. He doesn’t know how he got here either. He doesn’t think he would have the literary eloquence to explain himself out of this particular pickleーquite frankly, he doesn’t think he’s ever  _ had  _ much of a need to be fluid with his words. Not that it would mean much to members of the Jiggy Boyz, a strange and nomadic group with ties to, supposedly, the “Barrel”. Or whatever it was called. Lucas didn’t make it a habit to constantly pull information out of his head like a rabbit from a hat; he isn’t an information genius like Q-B.

_ Is he dead?  _ Libra examines Lucas with the eyes of a curious child, observing an object of immense oddity. 

_ Obviously not, silly.  _ Claude’s voice is exasperated, reprimanding. He gives Libra a small smack.  _ Look, he just opened his eyes. You’re going to tell me that a dead man opens his eyes when someone approaches? _

Libra blinks owlish eyes, lazy and relaxed.  _ Ah, you’re right.  _ He nods in agreement.  _ That  _ **_would_ ** _ be strange.  _

Lucas listens to them and recalls what he had been doing prior. Or, at least, tries to. His mind is fuzzy, his memories a white haze. 

_ You’ve hit your head somewhere, banged it up something fierce.  _ Claude gestures towards him, voice tinged with sympathy. 

_ You look awful.  _ Libra agrees. He doesn’t seem to know what to make of Lucas, and the feeling is mutually shared. There is a terribly awkward silence, and Lucas mortifies himself by trying to stand, only to keel over, throat aching as he heaves and coughs.

At least he doesn’t throw up. His stomach is strangely empty, and he tries not to dwell on whether this indicated he had already relieved the contents of his stomach elsewhere. 

_ Easy there.  _ Claude has a steadying hand on his shoulder.  _ I don’t know what happened, but you ought not to move too much. You might have a concussion. You’ll only make yourself sick. Libra, go get him something to drink. _

A few minutes pass before Libra kneels down to offer him water, though where he conjured it from, he doesn’t know. A vending machine, maybeーhe would be more suspicious under normal circumstances, but he’s too exhausted to care. He lifts the bottle to his lips while Claude runs soothing circles on his back, as if here were a small child. They’re like Bailey’s hands, strong and warm. Coaxed into calmness, he tries to drink the water.

_ Don’t drink that, Lucas.  _ The voice is cold, and rings through the alley, reverberates across concrete away and then back towards its owner.  _ They might have poisoned it, for all you know. _

Libra glowers at the interloper, voice laden with affront.  _ We wouldn’t do that.  _ Claude holds out a hand, blocking Libra as Lupus steps towards them, blade drawn in one hand, pistol clutched in the other. The weapon surprisingly matches him, with the dark attire and midnight hair, Lucas thinks, completely out of place. His head is woozy and he can’t even wonder why the other is there. 

But he’s pointing a gun at the two men who  _ had  _ just tried to help him, so it is with some effort that Lucas heaves himself up and tries to placate his teammate. 

_ Lupus, they were only trying to help me.  _ His words are slurred, his vision dimming. He wants to sleepーhe’s so tired.  _ Let’s just go. Leave them alone. _

Lupus merely stares at him, expression discernible, and suddenly Lucas is overcome with an urge to snap at him. 

_ Lupus.  _ This time he loads more force into his words, imaginary bullets against the threat of real ones. The two enigmatic men are backing away slowly, Claude pushing Libra behind him as he walked backwards in a half-crouch.  _ Put the damn thing away, and let’s just go home already. _

Lupus’ gaze shifts to Claude, and whatever the other sees there prompts him to spit out vehemently,  _ we weren’t making a pass at your partner, if that’s what you’re so afraid of. He was passed out, and we stopped to help. If you don’t like it, then don’t leave your teammates hobbling alone down empty alleys with a fucking concussion.  _ Libra grasps his arm, pulling and shaking his head.  _ Let’s go, Claude. He’s gonna shoot us. His eyes are saying it.  _

_ Lupus.  _ Again, and by the time he’s finished the two are already slipping out of sight.  _ Leave them alone. For fuck’s sake, you don’t have to threaten every person outside the group for being within twenty meters of any of us. It’s unbecoming. _

Lupus doesn’t offer any response, merely squatting down so his eyes are level with Lucas’ーtwin obsidian silently observing redwood mahogany. The dead sea staring expressionlessly at the smoldering glare of the setting sun. 

_ You got careless. You let their numbers overwhelm you.  _ There is no accusation in the words, for all their harsh connotations.  _ That rarely happens. Why tonight? You never have had trouble with this before.  _

Lucas feels his heart fall out of his chest and into his stomach. Or perhaps it is crawling up his throat, as he feels his windpipe close with unease.  _ You saw?  _ He can’t even play dumb, not with those eyes mercilessly boring holes into his soul, or what’s left of it.  _ You were watching? _

The question seems to confuse the other.  _ Of course I was.  _ Such a matter-of-fact response, unwavering and without the slightest bit guilt. Abnormally simple, as if it were par the course.  _ I’ve always been.  _

Why? The question is on the tip of his tongue, but Lupus continues to speak in that same tone, so naturally that he feels it is  _ he  _ who is in the wrong here, he is the one who is seeing the situation incorrectly. One reality clashes with the other, but Lupus’ attitude makes him question the one he grasps onto, thin straws slipping between blood-soaked fingers. 

_ It was sloppy, but since you finished the job, you probably thought it was alright. But it’s not. There’s no point if you let yourself get hurt, and now the enemies have spotted you. You’re lucky they didn’t try asking any further questions. I would’ve preferred it if they never saw you in the first place, but... _

_ I’m sorry.  _ Lucas blurts out. It’s too natural, the way his friend is talking, and now he’s fallen into the same patterns as they always do. He does something stupid. The other scolds. He apologizes sheepishly while the other gives him exasperated looks. Repeat. Over and over and over andー

Lupus’ hand brushes across his cheek as he stares at him with an expression that could almost be described as tender. Lucas is overcome with both immense relief and a desire to cut the hand away.

Afterwards, as if somehow spurned by Lucas’ apology, Lupus follows him on his jobs, and Lucas learns to not get sickーat least visiblyーeach and every single time. The other never lifts a hand lest it be to prevent Lucas’ own harm, which finishes the job twice as fast in itself. Blood like wine spills across floors of all textures, and in the background, a silent shadow lurks, blade sheathed in twilight and eyes twin chips of black ice. Each and every single time, he feels Lupus’ gaze fixated on him, watching with a quiet sort of contemplation, and it is both a source of a drug-like euphoria and a crawling sense of terror. 

In the end, the euphoria always wins. 

**Author's Note:**

> Usually I ramble but I suppose I shall collect myself and seriously write/flesh out some things in this 'universe'. Ahem, here we go...
> 
> Lucas is, as was written, definitely a self-appointed assassin for RS. Why self-appointed? He doesn't particularly enjoy it, but as you can see, he is easily driven to anger about his 'family'. He willingly suffers mental deterioration so he can keep his family safe. Some sacrifices are all too willingly made, I guess. He probably likes Lupus, but not in the same way the latter likes him. He's comforted by Lupus not condemning him for his actions, but that also terrifies him (because he fully expected him to, but wasn't).  
> Lupus is full of mystery and intrigue, because A. no one knows where he came from, and B. he rarely talks. At all. He's pretty powerful, too, so he attracts a lot of curiosity from outer groups, but he seldom pays any attention to it. Which is why it was rarely mentioned on his side (the previous work) because he just doesn't give a shit about what others say about him. Except it mildly irks him when they touch upon the subject of Lucas.   
> The whole 'obsession' thing will likely be further fleshed out in the future, but one thing I want to make clear: he's not just obsessed with/has a thing for Lucas being an expert in killing. The mentions of their childhood are my attempt at pointing out that Lupus probably was gonna have a thing for Lucas from the beginning (i.e., he followed him around a lot without Bailey's prodding), so the whole 'red' and 'beauty' aesthetic could be taken as a way for Lupus to be incapable of seeing Lucas' flaws. Or maybe he just has a thing for people who look good bloody, whatever rocks your boat.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for coming to my Ted Talk. Have a nice day, and please leave a kudos and/or comment if you have the time and enjoyed the story. And if I freaked you out, well I DID write a warning in the previous notes...


End file.
